


Don't Leave, Stay

by mixedwithintellect



Series: Saint Nicholas Verse [4]
Category: Don't Let Me Go - Harry Styles (Song), Kiwi - Harry Styles (Song), Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band), Sweet Creature - Harry Styles (Song)
Genre: Dinner, F/M, Friends to Lovers, becoming friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 10:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixedwithintellect/pseuds/mixedwithintellect
Summary: the one where Y/N fears that Harry only wears Gucci, Harry can actually cook, and Nick is growing more creative in his match-making





	Don't Leave, Stay

“Hello, love,” he welcomed her in, one arm outstretched for a hug as the other rested on the door. He looked cozy, socked feet resting against his hardwood floor as the edges of his striped pants grazed over them, making only his toes visible.

As Y/N stepped inside his flat, she immediately picked up on the smells of a home-cooked meal, the type that took her back to days of her childhood – that sense of spice, warmth, and the sounds of sizzling foods. She was invited to a ‘dinner party’, to put it formally, between Harry and Nick; although she had not quite met Harry yet, they had all been placed in a group message by Nick and had sort of met by those means. She wasn’t entirely sure why she had been included in the plans but didn’t particularly mind, Nick was a close friend and Harry seemed nice.

Even though she and Harry had texted a fair bit, Y/N still felt like a walking bundle of nerves, plus some. She hadn’t known what to wear to Harry’s, interpreting from the memes Nick flooded the group text with that Harry had an eclectic, and expensive, taste in fashion. An hour before, she had tried phoning Nick to figure out his approach, to try and model her own after his.

Nick hadn’t picked up, though, and it had eventually neared the time that Y/N had scheduled to have a car come by to drive her to Harry’s. So, in a fit of panic and using what outfits she already mentally knew worked, Y/N opted for a pair of black jeans, buckled belt, and a cream sweater, figuring it was enough like the rest of her newfound London squad to be acceptable for a house dinner.

On her way out, dashing quickly to lock her door and stuff her key in her purse, Y/N had one quick taste of the bitter winds before realizing that –  _nope,_ a jacket was necessary. Praying her Uber wouldn’t be upset by a few seconds of tardiness, Y/N stumbled inside and grabbed an oversized gray coat, bundling herself up on the walk to the car.

Harry had removed this jacket from her shoulders as she took in his foyer, as small as it was considering he was in a flat and not his own property. She didn’t know the specifics as to why he wasn’t in his publicly-known home, but figured it had to do with privacy, needing time away, or some other celebrity-related reason.

Y/N thanked him, Harry nodding back before hanging it up in his coat closet. Y/N took the opportunity to look at the photos lined on the shelves nearing the living room. There were wooden shelves, barely varnished, with black curls extending from the edges of the bottom to the wall, securely fastened in with black nails. Various frames littered the surface, some photos lay naked without a hard border, while others were stacked in the corner. Handwriting was visible on the bottom of a few pictures.

“My family,” Harry pointed out a white frame showing a row of people with similar laugh lines, enjoying a brunch on someone’s grassy patio. Next to it was a stream of Polaroids, some with dates hastily written along the bottom, others with random words scrawled along the sides. Some of the locations Y/N recognized, such as the Eiffel Tower at night, or the local bar that was down the street from her flat (in that one, Nick had stuffed a large burger in his mouth and giving the camera two thumbs-ups.)

“Random mo’ents, the simple ones,” Harry explained, running his fingers through his hair and gently pulling at the roots. His hands rested on his hips as he sternly looked over the photos with Y/N, as if criticizing their placement. She continued to survey the photos, nodding at Harry to sign that she had heard.

It seemed quaint, in a sense of the word, how none of the pictures were related to his wild successes or rich endeavors. Granted, the traveling was a sign of doing fairly well, but nothing screamed ‘I’m a millionaire.’ A few were random nature shots, predictable for an amateur photographer (at least, she figured that was what Harry was trying to accomplish), while others were of other celebrities – but in natural places, natural poses, without any facade distinguishing them as someone  _apart_  from society. There were as he saw them: people.

Harry seemed a bit flustered. He stood far enough from Y/N for it to be considered polite, considering their status as almost-strangers, but not quite alienating her from his deemed bubble space.

“Is Nick not here, yet?” Y/N moved on from the photos, shifting her purse down her arm, grasping the strap and placing it down on the side table next to a vase of sunflowers.

Harry shook his head, turning away from the photo wall as well.

“He said he might be late, had somethin’ come up,” he shrugged, gesturing to the open doorway of the kitchen and stepping to the side to allow her to go through first. She took the hint, moving swiftly from the foyer into his cooking space and looking at the mix of vegetables, sauces, and spoons scattered along the countertops. The smell grew stronger, nicer, fuller, and her stomach growled lowly in response. It must have taken a few hours, at least, to have prepared everything and set it up – Y/N felt the slightest twinge of surprise echo in her gut. He seemed to have gone all out for a dinner together. She hoped Nick would show up soon.

While Harry got back to work shifting and shaking some pots and pans, leaning low to check on the oven, Y/N sat down on a rustic barstool by the raised countertops, clasping her fingers together and resting against the marble. He had some music playing, low, through a fancy stereo system that seemed partially ingrained into the flat itself. A candle or two sat on the countertop near Y/N, although neither were lit. The kitchen smelled heavenly already though, so it wasn’t likely they would be needed.

“Didn’t know if yeh were vegetarian or somethin’, so I made a quinoa...type of thing,” he eyed the oven, as if wary a bloody cow would squeeze out of the door.

“Ah, I try to be when I can, but it’s not a permanent diet,” she hummed, leaning forward a bit on her elbows. Harry nodded, still glancing at the oven as he continued cooking some of the veg. A few containers were already out on the table around the bend from the kitchen, one bowl full of bread and another, smaller in size, holding the spread.

His flat was a bit on the chilly side, cold licks along the holes of Y/N’s sweater and the air vibrating with the kick-in of his heater. It was cozy, blankets were strewn along the couch in his living room, but Y/N felt it wasn’t the time to wrap herself up comfortably in a burrito-esque shape.

Silence extended itself, only a smidge unwelcome, along the two people in the flat. Harry continued cooking, seeming in his element – but yet, aware that the conversation had reached a natural, but strained, standstill. He wasn’t sure where Nick was, and debated texting him for the fourth time, making sure his best friend was  _actually_  coming. He wouldn’t put it over Nick to have forgotten, to have gone out with other friends and end up in an art gallery that took away his phone so he could properly ‘drink in’ the experience.

“So,” Harry started, feeling the obligation lay mostly on him for being the Host, “-you’re workin’ at a juice company?”

Y/N nodded, reaching back to pat her hair and make sure no strays had gotten tangled. It was a good job, the concepts she worked with interested her a great deal. If there was something LA kids liked, it was their juice. The blends she assisted on manufacturing were pretty alright, too, if she said so herself. Y/N attempted to live healthy when she could afford to, but more often than not she preferred buying a salad, wrap, or other actual  _food_  as opposed to a juice. Smoothies, even, would catch her attention more than strained apples. So, her work was pleasant and intriguing but left her wanting in regard to being fulfilled, it had no impact she felt she could feel in her own, individual path of life.

“Yeah, I’m just helping out with a few advertising campaigns. I try to freelance but tend to get roped into larger projects, spend more time at their offices than I planned on.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, before standing up and stepping away from the barstools. She rounded the counter, nearing the kitchen, flashing a wary smile when Harry noticed her coming closer. She held out a hand for the spoon he was stirring a sauce with, and he shook his head, a smile toying at the corners of his lips.

“No, ma’am,” he said quietly, holding the spoon further away from Y/N, “-yeh’re the guest here. I’m the chef,” he nodded for emphasis, the cheeky grin taking over his face. His eyes scrunched a bit when he couldn’t help the smile, Y/N noted, and his nose crinkled slightly.

“I  _want_  to help, Harry. You made fun of my macaroni skills last week, I’ve gotta prove myself.”

This was true – when Y/N had suffered a particularly bad day, she had texted a photo of her TV dinner in front of her TV as she was binge-watching  _Breaking Bad_ , to which her boys replied:

  


> ( _ **Nick**_   **Harry** _Y/N_ )

_**Not impressed. Harry can cook much better.** _

**I wouldn’t say MUCH better but I know how to use more than a microwave? x.**

_**See? Got miles on Y/N already.** _

**Ah I bet that’s not true. x.**

_Wow fuck off both of you, I’m sad and this WASN’T THE SHOW TO WATCH OH MY GOD NICK WHY DIDN’T YOU WARN ME ABOUT HTIS EPISODE_

_**Uhhhh it got your mind off work didn’t it??? Sheesh, talk about ungrateful.** _

  


Harry snorted, shaking his head at the memory, and handed her a spatula without another word. She shifted over to the other side of the stove, checking out the progress Harry had made with the various pans set up along the surface. It would be plausible to assume she missed Harry’s glance over, how it lingered on her face and hesitated a second too long before turning back to the potatoes.

But if her reddened cheeks were anything to go by, she hadn’t.

“I didn’t know what to wear, thought you might’ve opened the door in some bright blue Gucci suit,” she confessed, as a song came on she recognized. Y/N bopped her head to it casually as she cooked, snatching a stray teaspoon and trying the sauce.

She stopped the groan from her lips before it had time to manifest; Harry was a  _fucking good cook_. Harry seemed to notice her holding back, and bit back another laugh.

“Nah, that’s  _Harry Styles_ , love. Just Harry, now.”

She imagined some jazz hands when he said his full, ‘stage’ name, feeling the emphasis on the word, like it was a performance of the pieces of himself willing to be put on display. Harry  _Styles_  basked in the audience’s cheers, feeding them back the same energy and granting himself the opportunity to take advantage of feeling on top of the world.

“What’s the difference, if you don’t mind me asking?” She turned off the heat on the pan, as Harry also killed the fire for his. He seemed preoccupied fiddling with the oven’s knobs, letting the ‘quinoa thing’ cool inside. It took a while before he answered. Some questions couldn’t be given a voice to right away, especially when it was as massive as identity, which Y/N definitely understood. She had never been forced to respond to the world with who she was, only her parents and a few concerned friends. The pressure of being so well-known was unfathomable to her.

“’M Harry  _all the time_ ,” he began, a brief silence interrupting his explanation as he crossed the room to fetch some oven mitts to pull the dish out. The heat radiated outwards from the open oven, warming up his cheeks a bit more than they were naturally.

Not wanting to interrupt him, Y/N just hummed appreciatively when she smelled it; Harry was a  _really_  fucking good cook.

Her stomach growled again,

“On stage, or at interviews, or whatever, ’m Harry Styles, which is still  _me_ ,” and he turned from setting the dish down to search in her eyes, for a foundation of understanding, or perhaps the lurking suspicion that he was crazy. Either one he anticipated, the concept still confused him, himself. He pulled off the oven mitts, setting them down on the counter as he thought his next few words carefully.

“’Ve gotta separate the two, but Harry is like...all-encompassing me, yeah?” His fingers drew out an orb in the air, and then he pointed at one spot on the imaginary ball. Y/N’s eyes were glued to the pretend area, pursing her lips and giving a quick nod. “That point, right there, is when I’m on stage. It’s not everything, yeh know? But it’s still me. It’s all me, but I can’t maintain that one spot all the time.

“It is the most gratifying spot, though. It’s like,” his eyes obtained the quality of glimmering at something a bit beyond the edges of the Known, an intangible sense of validation and appreciation that existed only in the space of his stage, “-’M there, and everyone else is there, and we’re all…there.” His eyes darted out, away from their safe space in the universe, to meet Y/N’s, to perhaps see if they held any laughter or mockery in them.

She only stood there, attentively, listening. No judgment in her eyes, only curiosity.

He continued.

“’T’s crazy, that people care ‘bout what I say. Or write, or sing, yeh know?” his eyes briefly closed, and he shook his head, the serious topic brushing down his spine and dissipating at his feet. The moment was over, albeit quickly but Y/N wasn’t sure what else to say – to either bring it back, or transition into another conversation.

She couldn’t grasp onto what he was saying, because experience was the only way, but she altogether understood the concept. It was a special place, for him, to be on stage – and to let him bring his whole, uninhibited self into that space would be to subject it to the validation of an entire crowd. Sometimes, aspects of people had to remain vulnerable, unapproachable, even if for criticism’s sake. His persona was crucial to his sanity, an understandable concept given the immense support he had universally.

Harry broke the quiet, chuckling a bit to himself.

“Do yeh want some wine? Dinner should be ready soon, ‘n I can see where Nick’s at...”

Y/N nodded, mumbling her thanks and mentally wondering why she hadn’t thought to bring any wine. Wasn’t that a grown up thing to do? She had no idea; she had texted Nick asking if they should bring gifts, and he had replied with:

**Babe I think your presence is enough of a gift for young Haz.**

From which Y/N got the impression that Harry was a lot lonelier than he let on, needing to bring in Nick’s friends for a dinner party. Or perhaps Nick simply recognized how broke Y/N was and assumed it would be kinder to let her escape the insufferable obligation of being a guest. What was proper and socially acceptable had never been drafted out for Y/N, and self-help books only served as nice paperweights.

Shifting his eyes to anywhere but Y/N, Harry went around the corner to, presumably, where his wine cellar was. Y/N was left in the kitchen to her own devices, and she took the opportunity to scurry out and grab her phone from the purse in the hallway. There was one text message from Nick in the group text.

  


**im sooooo durnk… :0:):)**

It had been sent five minutes before, an apparent hint that Nick had either forgotten or gotten so wound up in his time spent with others’, he was simply unable to make it to Harry’s. Nick was  _not_  the type to be wasted frequently, he usually stayed sober to keep an eye on those around him. He just knew how to have a nice time, drunk or sober, and appreciated the mornings after  _much_  more when he had stayed dry. But none of this was relevant, when he wasn’t  _there._

Y/N inhaled deeply, fingers itching for that promised glass of wine. The night spent with friends sounded nice, relaxing, full of tipsy giggles and shared anecdotes. Having Nick be an intermediate between Harry and herself had been assuring, because despite her interactions with him over text – she didn’t properly  _know_  him, right? Not the way he reacts to words, not the way his eyes seem to dig deeper than what she was normally comfortable with showing.

“Uh-” Harry called out from a few rooms away, entering with a bottle of wine tucked in his right hand and resting against his elbow, and his phone in his left hand. He was scrolling, eyebrows furrowed as he read.

“Nick not coming?” Y/N prompted, tucking her phone snug in her back pocket.

Harry shook his head, mild irritation nestling itself in the depths of his face. It wasn’t that he didn’t look  _forward_  to hanging out with Y/N, but he had been counting on Nick to help the flow of conversation, as his best friend was known to do. The idea of sitting across from Y/N with only food and wine between them worried him slightly, it  _was_  a bit intimidating. Especially after Nick hyped up his ‘other best friend’ so much.

 _Somehow_ , though, throughout the course of dinner, things smoothed out. Harry wasn’t looking down at his plate as much as he had feared, it was more about connecting with her eyes and it all felt like a  _continuation_  of a friendship Harry hadn’t known started. 

The sense of a Beginning was in the past, lurking behind the sparkle in his eyes, Y/N thought, it all rang as though she and Harry were merely catching up, rather than properly introducing themselves.

But, it wasn’t ‘somehow’, it was clearly because Y/N’s laugh only  _encouraged_  Harry’s relentless jokes, making him come out of his shell more than he may have without. The way she would cover her mouth when she accidentally snorted (at a particularly bad joke, fart jokes couldn’t be  _funny_  when they’re in the 20s, could they) spurred on his own laughter. He sat, reaching for more wine, his mouth crooked in a mix between a smirk, at his own brilliance, and a smile, his stomach feeling the all-too-familiar flutters.

“What’s yeh ideal job?” Harry suddenly questioned Y/N, once the giggles had died a bit. He was sitting across from her, one arm leaning against the empty chair next to him as he casually spread his legs. Harry’s face was calm, his eyes lazily sweeping the table to spot another bread roll for his fingers to crumble apart as they spoke.

Y/N had attempted to sit proper, for as long as she could, but eventually caved into her natural slouch, her elbows resting on the table and her right hand dangling to the side with the glass of wine between her fingers. Her hair was a bit messy, but Harry didn’t bother to mention it, he sort of liked how the curled strands brushed lay against her cheek, her neck, the top bits of her forehead. It made her seem more human, her flaws were endearing.

“I don’t know if it’s an exact place,” Y/N began, toying with her wine glass and wishing she had a better answer. She knew the basics of what she wanted, what her soul craved and how her current employment wasn’t meeting those needs. Travel was fairly high up in her priorities, and LA was a great hub for those opportunities. Start-ups gave her choices in terms of diversity of company, and non-profits were fantastic work experiences. Yet, there was a voice with no origin, saying softly that her current situation was more of an obstacle than an end-goal. Y/N couldn’t help but agree with the voice, but how can one justify altering the course their life is set on, due to some intangible source?

A bit reckless.

“That’s alright,” Harry hummed, his gaze shifting from the bread roll to Y/N. She was biting her lip, perhaps without fully realizing it, the candle glow manipulating the shades of her face.

“I’ll figure it out.” It sounded more like a promise to Harry, than an assertion of Y/N feeling sure of herself.

“’M sure yeh will, love, you’re smart,” Harry replied kindly, grinning at her attempt to roll her eyes. They ended up only looking in one direction before darting back to his face, and she stuck her tongue out at his chuckling. He didn’t feel particularly comfortable pushing the topic, not having weaseled out of Nick Y/N’s backstory yet.

Dinner slowly wrapped up, each young adult equally resistant to calling the night over. Harry was telling all of the stories he could think of, deriving from his school days and when he had gone on his first tour. He strayed away from too many celebrity-based stories, adoring the sense of normalcy that had settled around the pair. He was simply Harry, his Gucci impression had worn off in her eyes, replaced by the sense that the man-child in front of her still kept his teddy bear from when he was 5 in his bedroom, propped up on his pillows.

Y/N, on the other hand, was trying to keep her glass as full as possible. But their plates were empty, and there was nothing left to do but sip at it every so often, to feel as though she wasn’t being annoying by constantly laughing at whatever intense story Harry had begun. His hands would fling out and he would lean in, as if someone were attempting to overhear his brilliant recount of sneaking out of his house to meet up with friends to trade comic books. He reached over a few times to fill her wine back up, perhaps sensing what Y/N’s plan was and complying with it, no words necessary.

Eventually, though, time could only hold back so much.

“If yeh don’t have anywhere to be tonight...” Harry began, and his eyes flickered down a bit lower than normal, not quite hitting proper eye contact. Shyness suited him, in an odd light, it was a revelation of him that went against the grains of the confident and easy-going nature Y/N had assumed from texts.

“I can show yeh the library. Well, no’ a library exactly, but it’s where I read and stuff,” he explained, scratching at his head.

“Yeah, sure, I’d love that. Love books.” was all Y/N could rally up to reply with, happy he had suggested another plan but overall  _very_ much feeling the effects of the wine.

The dishes were collected together, stacked near the sink for the inevitable time that chores and cleanliness ruled the night, and Harry led Y/N down one of his halls to a secluded room on the left.

* * *

His fingers were rough against the grey-ish cover of the book, his thumbs pressing in to keep the pages from closing together. The book was well worn, the pages’ edges mostly bent or dog-earred, the cover pages a bit splotchy and off color. It was evidently a loved book, a well used book, one that held the types of words people can’t seem to forget, yet always go searching for once more. Finding solace in a novel isn’t an easy task, especially because it’s nearly impossible to do it if it’s a goal as opposed to a circumstance.

The room wasn’t well lit, but the glistening spines of books scattered the light everywhere so most corners of the room had, at the very least, a warmth. It was the epitome of a study; deep cherry wood stain running along the bookshelves and the couches and seat cushions were hardened by leather. It all felt very dense and compact inside, although there was a yellow dream-catcher dangling above Harry’s desk. A spry, free moment within the organized dictatorship of organization. Perhaps he felt it would give his life more order; from what Nick had mentioned to Y/N, there had been more chaos than anything else as of late.

80s music stretched the sides of the walls, coming from Harry’s record player balanced on top of some dictionaries in the corner. It was the only noise, save the rain against his window in the middle of the back wall. Two seats were against the window, on opposing sides, and themselves bordered by full bookshelves. Harry was curled up in one, his striped legs tucking themselves over the edge of the seat and dangling above the floor. His back rested against the wall, a black shirt with rolled sleeves and a small sauce stain on the shoulder. She had told him it wasn’t noticeable, especially since the fabric was so dark anyway, but his nose still wrinkled because it was his  _favorite_  black shirt.

He was quietly flipping through his old copy, the elegant words never failing to keep him enthralled. His fingers tugged on his lower lip as he read, absentmindedly twirling against his chin and mouth.

Y/N didn’t mind that he was preoccupied within his literary universe; she had a copy of some other thick, heavily angsty novel from his shelves and was pretty content with her position in the seat next to Harry. It was late, late enough for yawns to continuously pull out of her mouth and force Harry to shuffle in his chair every now and again, to keep from falling asleep.

Eventually, she accepted the reality of the situation. It was late, or perhaps even early at this point, and Harry hadn’t implied anything about her staying the night over. Not that she expected him to,  _especially_  not in a romantic way, but she much preferred his cozy flat to her disarrayed one. Not to mention the knowledge that someone was next to her, that she wasn’t completely alone - it all felt comforting. A feeling that had evaded her heart for the longest time, considering she usually worked late hours and was always being thrust into different environments.

Looking over her shoulder and seeing Harry, who had expected nothing of her except what she wanted to provide, was nice. Similarly for Harry, Y/N was one of the loveliest people he had met recently, a woman who wasn’t so wrapped in her own ego she couldn’t see beyond that blurry haze, a woman who got shit done but wasn’t afraid to recognize room for improvement. Plus, she hadn’t asked any questions that would be out the norm, no references to his stardom or One Direction days (he had half-feared she would bring up one of the memes Nick had posted two days ago, which was particularly scandalous and reminded him of mistakes long ago). She let him explain who he was, and took him at that.

“Maybe I should get going...” she mumbled, her throat thick with lack of use in the past few hours, as she shifted up out of the seat. The time had escaped her, checking her phone would be checking into a reality she didn’t want to intrude on her lovely night.

Harry glanced up, half-dazed, before putting his book to the side.

“Oh, yeah, ‘ suppose. What time is’t?” he groaned, rolling to his side to check his phone. Apparently, more time had gone by than either of them thought, because he immediately shook his head.

“Don’t feel comfortable lettin’ yeh go home this hour, love. Cabs full of odd people, don’t like it,” he grumbled, bringing his legs over to the proper side of the chair and standing up slowly. He ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to control the little he had at the moment, as Y/N tried to remember where she had put her purse. They had opened another wine bottle before cracking into the books, their glasses still holding a few droplets on their coasters, but it hadn’t helped the fog that overcame her mind.

“I think we’re still a lil gone, Haz,” Y/N spoke softly, and if his heart didn’t  _skip_  at that, “-I don’t think getting behind the wheel is too smart...”

Harry shook his head. “Nah, planned on gettin’ the guest room set up.”

And he took the steps forward to meet Y/N, his hands tucking gently into his pockets. His hair was tousled, half to one side and the loosely shaved sides curling the tiniest bit against each other. He sniffed, swaying back and forth a bit, not moving enough to suggest he was in a rush to the guest room. His eyes were intent on Y/N’s, as she felt another laugh stir up in her, leaving her mouth only as a half-breath with the slightest sway to a giggle.

The slurred nature of a night spent late, especially with the addition of good company and good wine, tended to create a private atmosphere, where both parties are convinced that their actions would never impact another aspect of their life. The night was independent, special, and epic. Nothing could’ve prevented this, really, Y/N figured, recognizing the question floating against Harry’s breath. If only he would ask it...

His eyes slowed in their journey around her face, narrowing to only staring her lips, as if they held the last of the nectar and he was desperate to become a god. She had been biting them again, but once she realized where his attention had gone, her lower lip was released.

Y/N stood, her hands still clutching the book she had started, and if anyone asked her at that moment, she couldn’t even remember the title, the author, her own  _name_.

Harry was pleased enough to inform her, through a voice weighed down with the drunken lust of a man holding back, “Y/N...”

She stayed quiet, almost frozen into a statue of her former self.

“Can I...could I...kiss yeh?” His hands made the motion as if they were coming out of their pocket restraints but paused, trying to gauge her reaction before acting any further. If Harry was reading the signs wrong, this would have been utterly disastrous.

Y/N’s lips parted, quite in shock that the words had slipped out of  _his_  mouth instead of hers, when she felt the same thought cross her mind so intensely. Shaking her head ‘yes’, her heart and her mind collaborated to attempt and figure out what was going on.

And Harry never looked so pleased with himself, his eyes dashing up and down her face, not quite sure where to land when her eyes were sparkling like that, her cheeks were so flush, her lips were already  _bitten red_  and her fingers were setting the book on a side table.

Harry reached out, one hand hesitantly laying on her waist and another reaching out to gently glide over her cheek. She was so soft, inside and out, his fingers drifted to the nape of her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her lips came together in the slightest bit, the shade of a  _raspberry_  practically and -

The front door thrashed open, the click of a key apparently having gone over the both of them in the haze of excitement and Monumental Things Occurring. A stumbling man came through, visible from their position near the library doorway, as the foyer was cut out as an area between the kitchen and bedrooms/study.

Nick held up two bottles of champagne in one hand, seemingly haven drunken one quite fine by himself, squealing to himself over some joke he had thought of on the way inside.

“Harry! Y/N! My besties,” he sang, wiggling his hips and handing the bottles off to Harry. Y/N and Harry had separated, instinctively, as soon as the door had opened, and now Harry only looked at her in obvious dismay, unsure with how to proceed.

“C’mon, Nick, you had your water?” Y/N took ahold of the situation, walking forward to gently guide Nick by the elbow. It was a comfortable routine, between her and Nick, and she knew from his incoherent grunts that yes, he had his water, although he didn’t like it very much.

She didn’t bother to look at Harry, unsure what words could fill up distance. Nick began jabbering about his night out, the expensive dishes and luxury galore that he had dabbled in, and how he would’ve been thrilled to take her and Haz along, but he knew Haz had been slaving away on the dinner – and he  _so_ meant to make it back in time to grab some of Harry’s dinner rolls. 

That was when Nick began tittering again, glancing madly at the wallpaper as Y/N and Harry both led him to the guest room, that had previously been Y/N’s in a prior conversation, in what felt like a prior decade.

“Did ya touch Harry’s buns, yeah?” he asked Y/N, eyes alight with mischief.

Harry snorted with laughter, pulling away from Nick to pull back the billowing comforter on the bed and prop up the pillows so they would be nice and fluffed for his dear, drunk friend. Y/N worked on sitting Nick down, grasping his phone out of his hand and putting it safely within the side table drawer, knowing Nick had a tendency of texting the wrong people when he was newly hungover.

“I would like it if yeh still stayed, I’ve still got a half of my bed,” Harry whispered, after they had successfully pulled Nick’s socks off and he was fast asleep under the covers, like a small boy who had crashed from his sugar high. They looked like two parents, each looking fondly at their boy, their fingers like ghosts drifted closer to each other’s, before hesitating, and drawing away.

“Just sleeping,” Y/N confirmed, eyebrows raised to signify that she wasn’t planning on lowering her borders again. The night had closed the possibilities for the time, they were who they were at the dining table. A bit awkward, the silence unrelenting. Two new friends, who both needed to come together for Nick.

Harry blinked slow, a smile growing on his face as he nodded, seeming at bliss with that.

He held the door open for her, as he did when she first entered his flat, and similarly she passed him with a furtive glance that sent him in small, tipsy giggles.

“Yeah, love, just sleeping.”


End file.
